


fire hazard

by rolameny



Series: Destiny fics [14]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Breathplay, Choking, Collars, M/M, Misuse of Solar Light, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rolameny/pseuds/rolameny
Summary: The Drifter wants what Shin won't give him. They compromise.





	fire hazard

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for all my S/D friends I kept accidentally taunting with previews for abandoned WIPs, but mostly for Tanya.

Hands around his throat. A look burning in Shin's eyes that Drifter doesn't want to read.

The hands press down on him. The edges of the Drifter's vision start going black.

He gasps under those hands, again and again. He can't help it. The body wants to survive even when you don't. It fights you for it.

But the body needs air. Those hands keep pushing. Drifter's chest hitches, smaller motions up and down, and then stops. There's a bubble of calm growing in his chest along with all that carbon dioxide. His eyelids flicker, ready to shut for good.

Shin eases off on the pressure.

Drifter gasps again and this time air comes in with it. His chest heaves. Shin's thumb nestles in the hollow of his throat without pressing down.

"What the fuck," Drifter says, nearly as hoarse as Shin. "Can't seal the deal?"

Shin sits back on his heels, the Derelict's cold air rushing to fill his abandoned space. He's straddling Drifter's waist, so his ass goes right on Drifter's thighs. Drifter's boner is still eager and waiting. So's Shin's. So what the fuck.

Shin frowns down at him. Stubble-faced bastard. 

"Getting a little rich for my blood here," Shin says, eventually. "I'm not into anything that would need Ghost assistance to come back from."

Drifter clenches his hands in the thin blanket. He can feel them wanting to shake. He won't let them.

"What happened to being ruthless? Man with the Golden Gun lost his spark?"

Drifter twists under him, pressing their crotches together. There's a heat in his belly but it's going sick. He just wants that clean burn back. Wants Shin to keep him going till his mind's burnt clear out.

The hands on his throat burst into fire.

It doesn't hurt, not like it should, but Drifter jerks under it anyway.

"Listen to me," Shin growls. "You won't taunt me into going too far. Not again. Tell me what you want and we'll make it happen. But if you try to trick me into killing you while we're trying to fuck then I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back."

Drifter forces a grin. It presses his chin into Shin's hands, blazing high. "So there's at least one line you won't cross, huh, Mr. Malphur."

Shin's mouth twists. His hands loosen on Drifter's throat.

Drifter slaps his own hands over Shin's before he can pull them away.

"Don't," he rasps. Fire licks up at his palms and knuckles, pain rippling along his skin. But bearable pain.

That's not what he wants right now.

He takes a breath. Shin lets him. It burns going into his lungs.

He can't think of anything to say with it. 

"This," he says, finally. "More of this. You're the Man, huh, Mr. Renegade? You know how to take a Lightbearer down. Take me to the edge. Close as you can."

"You a Thanatonaut now?" Shin sounds unimpressed. Or maybe that's just his voice. "What do I get out of this?"

A smile flickers across Drifter's face. He can't help it. "The pleasure of my company. We're past all dues, you and me."

Shin frowns. Drifter holds his breath. Without the movement of his own muscles in the way he can feel the twitches of Shin's, his fingers on Drifter's throat tensing and relaxing as he thinks who knows what kinda thoughts.

"And I'll suck your dick after," he adds on impulse. Shin laughs.

"Nice try."

But eventually he says, "Alright. Stoplight system. And I mean it."

Drifter opens his mouth to take a breath and say — what? Thank you? That's not their style.

Shin doesn't let him finish the thought or the breath.

His hands tighten around Drifter's throat again. This time the fire burns.

Shin doesn't let him get another breath. His hands ease off just enough to keep Drifter from blacking out, once every minute or so. His eyes are keen, peering down at Drifter like he's trying to stare through him and into the Light supporting him.

Meanwhile, his hips press into Drifter's, a rough grind with both of them still mostly dressed. The codpiece of Shin's armour is another point of pain whenever he pushes down.

The corners of Drifter's field of vision grey out. Shin, right in front of him, goes wobbly.

There's a corner of Drifter's mind that never stops working the angles, never stops running calculations on how to get out of wherever he might be. Surprise Shin with a sudden wild kick, use his hips to flip them, get the closest knife from where it's hidden inside his second layer of robe, do enough damage to slow Shin down, and book it. It could work. 

Shin twists his hands where they're sitting, scraping a thumb up Drifter's jaw, the Light vibrating painfully against his bones. 

Drifter would never stand a chance. He goes limp. His vision swims.

Shin looks down at him. There's calculation in those eyes of his, gleaming in the fire of his own Light. 

"I'm going to try something. Don't move." There's a threat in his voice. His fingers go hotter. Then they let go. The heat doesn't leave, a wide band of it without any weight at all, and Drifter still can't breathe. Even without the pressure on his throat — he just can't get enough air somehow — his chest heaves, taking up huge gulps of air that don't do anything to lighten his dizziness.

Shin sits back on Drifter's lap, watching him.

The band of fire around his throat pulses slow, going a cooler red, and he can breathe. Then it goes yellow-white and it's like his lungs have forgotten how to take in oxygen again, for all they keep heaving.

"I thought that might work." Shin brushes fingers across the band. Sparks trail in their wake.

The fire of his power is eating the oxygen in the air Drifter is breathing in before it can get to his lungs. 

Shin watches him catch on.

"Don't move," he says, and gets up. Drifter's hands flex weakly on the sheets, but Shin doesn't leave, just starts stripping, all businesslike. When he's down to nothing but the Light his Ghost bore him with, he reaches for Drifter's clothes.

A wave of dry heat comes with his approach, fire dripping off his hands like he dunked them in a bucket of ethanol and got too close to a spark. Drifter watches through a haze.

Shin undoes Drifter's layers, pushing them to the sides to reveal the thin black undershirt he wears under all the robes. He finds the knife Drifter keeps in his robes, too, and flips it to test its balance before setting it carefully off to one side. Drifter scowls up at him, lit from underneath by the band of power around Drifter's neck.

It's been a little while since he got a decent breath so his vision's pretty hazy, but there's a good chance Shin smirks at him at that.

"Can't tell me you're balking at a little torn cotton after all that."

Without the air to speak, Drifter mouths at him, soundless: _No respect_.

Shin cocks an eyebrow at him.

He puts the knife down with the heavy click of metal on wood.

And instead, he lays his hand — searing, suddenly, wreathed in flame — and sets it on Drifter's chest. Fire licks up from between his fingers and crawls up Drifter's shirt. It moves like a brushfire, a low red line chasing the contours of his body like hills. 

It stops before it gets to his robes.

When Shin lifts his hand, there's no ash left behind — only a red palmprint like a brand nestled exactly between his nipples.

Shin looks down at it with real satisfaction.

Drifter's hands are going to cramp, stiff and twisted as they are in the sheets. Shin traces the edge of the brand with a thumbnail, and Drifter's overwhelmed nerves, firing off confused impulses, read the fine scraping pressure as _cold_.

Shin runs his hands up Drifter's body, his Light a battering ram against Drifter even as his body stays halfway gentle. It burns wherever he touches, leaving skin flushed and tender in its wake. Drifter shivers under those hands, helpless, mouth hanging open and panting for whatever air Shin will allow him. The collar pulses at his neck with a slow heartbeat, white when it flares to eat his oxygen, orange when it gives him the mercy of a breath. Shin's expression is turned inward, but all his attention is on Drifter. That burns nearly as much as the handprint. 

Shin won't touch his dick. Instead he touches everywhere else, scorching Drifter's skin and leaving him shaking. Shin doesn't have to get rough physically —- his Light does that for him. Drifter's whole ribcage is buzzing. His head's so full he can't think — he's not tied down, but he just can't do anything but twist under Shin, weak, still heaving for air.

Shin brushes a finger up the line of Drifter's hip, close to his dick as he's come so far. 

Drifter trembles. He feels sweat try to come up on his skin and immediately get baked away by Shin's heat.

"Too much?" Shin asks. Still holding back. "I want a colour."

Drifter pulls his lip out from between his teeth to mouth back at him, _Fuck you_. _Green._

Shin's eyes narrow, and without warning, quick as drawing his weapon, he wraps his whole hand around Drifter's dick. It's searing. Drifter gasps for air that doesn't reach his lungs and his hips jerk a foot straight upwards. Shin rides the motion with him, not letting him go.

He's going to claw a hole in the pallet. He's going to burn a hole straight through the floor. He can't breathe. Shin's only allowing him air in tiny hitching bursts, so he just keeps heaving, the handprint on his chest rising in and out of his vision.

Shin waits, hand still, wrapped around Drifter. The heat of it burns perfect. And once Drifter's adjusted — once he's gotten his eyes to narrow, his chest to settle as much as it can — Shin starts moving. A slow twist and shift upwards. Practically tame, in any other circumstance.

In these particular circumstances, it's only the weakness from lack of oxygen keeping Drifter from kicking Shin full in the chest in reflex.

It burns — it's overwhelming, too much to even process — Shin's thumb reaches the crown of Drifter's dick, and he thinks, one clear thought rising through the rest, _Fuck, so he is going to kill me_. 

Drifter lies there flat, muscles in his thighs trembling under Shin's weight, hands flexing, unseeing eyes on the low ceiling.

He's going to burn from the inside out, lungs and bones and dick, there won't be anything left of him but that handprint and a curl of smoke

Shin leans in close to lay his spare hand over Drifter's throat. Drifter can't help but tip his head back to give him room, even as he bares his teeth.

Who knows what kinda Light he made the collar from, that his hand doesn't pass through it but pushes it harder against Drifter's neck. His vision goes black and orange all over, bursting with sunspots.

His mouth drops open, hitting Shin's wrist. "Pay attention," Shin says, through the ringing in Drifter's ears.

He pulls his hand back, leaving the collar burning brighter than ever, a clear blue-white. 

Shin drops down back to Drifter's dick. In one quick motion, he pulls his hand back and replaces it, unexpectedly, with his mouth, cooler than his hands.

Distantly, Drifter hears fabric tear. The sheet under his hands.

Shin only lets him have air in quick sips in a rhythm with the working of his mouth. Drifter twitches in rhythm with it, his life narrowing to a tunnel, to this: Shin's weight on his thighs, Shin's mouth on his dick, Shin's collar on his neck.

He hangs there in that moment for an amount of time he can't parse, getting tugged closer and closer to an unseen edge.

His hips shift more and more, weak twitches all he's capable of. Far gone as he is, Drifter doesn't even recognize he's about to come till Shin pulls off, mouth red.

The air of his little room is a blow against his overheated skin.

Shin watches him. Drifter doesn't know what he sees in his expression, but his mouth opens and closes, like he thinks about saying something and decides against it.

He leans back down. The curve of his shoulders as he goes is beautiful. Someone needs to put Drifter out of his misery. Why isn't it Shin?

Shin swallows him back down, as sure in this as he is in everything. Drifter bites his lip — he lets it fall out from between his teeth to pant, uselessly, for air — he pushes against the pallet with a foot, trying to get any leverage.

Shin takes him in all the way, down to the base, just as the collar disappears from around his neck. Drifter takes in his first real lungful of air in the second that he comes, led up to the cliff's edge and shoved unceremoniously off it.

Drifter's vision goes white. It lasts an endless moment, a handful of quick stuttering heartbeats, body entirely overwhelmed. Without his consent, his body uses the gift of oxygen to make a long noise, something halfway between a wail and a groan.

He shakes on the pallet, finally breaking out into a sweat that doesn't burn off in an instant. He's been burnt clean, hollowed out by fire, filled with nothing now but dissipating smoke. His muscles tremble uncontrollably. Drifter's calf cramps.

Shin rises, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, and — _something_ — fills him back up again. Just that one moment's sight of him, eyes framed with tired bruises, hair a mess, makes Drifter's heart pump with something more than oxygenated blood. He doesn't want to name it, and so lies there, panting, skin buzzing with the aftershocks of fire. 

Shin leans over him, propped on his hands on either side of Drifter, his own chest moving like he's trying to catch some air himself.

"Didn't think you had it in you. You sick fuck." Drifter's voice is raspy. Like he's smoked a whole pack, or walked through a burning building.

Shin breathes out, hair falling in his eyes, shoulders drooping. Drifter — on an impulse he doesn't want to look into too closely, Drifter disentangles a hand from the sheets to smooth it over Shin's forehead, tucking the hair behind an ear.

"Should I go?" Normally it'd be biting, but Shin says it quiet, like he means it.

"Fuck you, kinda dealmaker are you, not even waiting to get yours." Drifter doesn't think about it — he lets his hand circle round to the nape of Shin's neck to pull him down onto the pallet.

Shin resists for just a moment before he allows it, but he doesn't drop down next to Drifter. Instead he lies right on top of him, a heavy weight of muscle. His cheek lands on Drifter's chest, full center on the handprint. Shin lays a hand by his neck, thumb brushing skin still flushed from the collar. Drifter's nerves give a twitch, too worn out for more than a prickle.

"Figured you wouldn't be up for a blow job right now," Shin says, sound vibrating right into Drifter's skin.

"Give me a minute, fuck. Your Ghost ain't rezzed you with an ounce of patience." Drifter's hand slides up to Shin's hairline, damp with sweat.

"You just let me know when you're ready, then," Shin says, with the unmistakable slackening cadence of a man falling asleep.

Drifter considers outrage. Considers pushing Shin off him, off the pallet's torn sheets, onto the cold steel floor. The thoughts escape out the back door soon as he lets them in the front, though. Shin's Light's gone and burnt out the scurrying rat of his impulses for now.

 _Shin fuckin' Malphur, huh_ , he thinks, and his eyes slide shut, slow and inexorable, pinned under Shin's warm weight, for once in his life not cold at all.


End file.
